


The Dragonrider

by calisonne



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ADWD spoilers, Alternate Canon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 22:41:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calisonne/pseuds/calisonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on <a href="http://asoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/topic/61463-the-dragon-rider-adwd-spoilers/">this theory</a>, I tested out writing, 'what if Quentyn Martell survived?'</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dragonrider

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not saying I'm 100% wholeheartedly behind this theory. I'd like it to be true, but chances are it's probably not. so I wrote it. I may add to it, I'm not sure, since it pretty much takes place at the end of ADWD and I'd have to make up the story myself instead of making an AU. We'll see, we'll see. I'm also the worst fanfic writer ever so, y'know, there is that. It's also 2am. The end may or may not have been rushed.

The loud beating of wings against the warm afternoon air was enough to rouse him from his sleep; _he had been dreaming of the dragon pit again, of Rhaegal_ _setting the world alight with flame. The fire had engulfed him, and he had screamed_ , screamed so loud that he was not sure if it had been the return of the dragon that woke him, or it just so happened the beast had chosen to return when he was aflame. He could see the white creature now, partially silhouetted in the large opening he had created for itself in the side of the pyramid wall. Viserion had folded away his wings, but Quentyn Martell doubted he would stay long, to check he was still here, perhaps; the dragon was studying him, from what he could tell, watching as he pushed himself up into a sitting position from the bed he had been resting whilst wrestling with the cool sheets to free himself from his entrapment within. It had been convenient that Viserion had broken the wall of some abandoned bed chambers, convenience, or the creature had known; he had seen the green dragon, Rhaegal, _the green one was Rhaegal_ , unleash his fury upon him. The white one, Viserion, seemed to have no intentions of bathing him in more burning air, which was good. He could still smell the smoke on him, even after he had replaced his ruined clothes with the garments available in the vacant room he had made his temporary home. Time had not been too clear to him whilst he had been recovering, nights and days had melted together with dreams of burning – but from the state of his arm, he had not been here for long, which was also good. The pyramid, Quentyn did not quite know which one it was, had been left in peace, in fear of the dragon that much he knew. He still had those fears himself, for Viserion was not tame, and he was alone. Drink and Arch were gone, as were the Windblown – he did not even know if they were alive. He would assume so, for now, he could not be the hero when he had lost all his companions – all for a dragon. 

He summoned the strength to leave his bed and cross the room, pouring himself a drink from the little remainder of liquid – he had tasted much finer, but it was enough to wet his mouth and dull the pain, a little. He should have burned more, but he did not. Maybe Rhaegal had not wanted to kill him, only prove his superiority to the trespasser, that or his Targaryen blood had saved him, it would be nicer to believe both – but Rhaegal was not his dragon, that was the white one, Viserion. Viserion was still watching him, his great white head titled in a fashion so that both of his molten eyes were fixed on him as he drank the dregs of liquid that remained. He would need to find some more – and some food. There had to be some more forms of nourishment somewhere within this pyramid, which he had not yet explored; the truth of it was that he had not yet left this room. The people of Meereen had no doubt seen the dragon residing here, but it did not mean they had abandoned their pyramid to the beast, they may be laying siege, waiting to starve him out if they knew he was here; Quentyn had been responsible for releasing the dragons from their imprisonment – the people may want blood. He put down the empty goblet. Viserion had not moved. Quentyn had lost the whip in the pit, the whip and the lion mask, when he had dropped to the ground in his best attempt to extinguish the flames that coated him – assuming Quentyn had been defeated, Rhaegal had broken off his attack and turned upon the others, washing them in his furnace wind. It had not been his own screaming he had heard when he, after some scrabbling along the floor, had found one of Viserion's great cream wings within his reach and seized it, pulling himself up with agonising difficulty only part way up before the creature made his bid for freedom. Quentyn could have sworn he had seen Gerris, gleaming steel sword drawn, and then Yronwood's bald head, crouched as if reaching for something on the floor – Gerris Drinkwater had looked up at him, or at Viserion, from what he could recall; it was all slightly blurry as a memory, Quentyn had almost lost consciousness during the flight and tumbled to his death, jolted into awareness when the dragon had landed – somewhere. He slipped off then, and the next thing he recalled was Viseron landing before him as dawn was breaking; even without the whip, the dragon had let him climb, rather hesitantly, onto its back, which had taken a lot of time as initially Quentyn had found himself frozen in place, and then had been extremely wary of even approaching the beast. That second flight, with less fear of falling to oblivion, Quentyn had found exhilarating, the wind rushing through his half scorched hair, cool air rushing up his arms and cooling his burns – of course he had still been scared, but in the moment, he had been flying, He had been in the sky, on a dragon. He wished Drink and the big man could have seen him, achieving what he had set out to do, proving his worth by taming – to some extent, a dragon. His father would be proud. _Quentyn_ _Martell,_ _the brave_ _prince of Dorne_ _and_ _the tamer of_ _the white dragon_ _,_ people would say, he would be a name for history. That was if he could get Viserion to Dorne. The second flight had simply been the white dragon carrying him back to Meereen, to the pyramid – where Quentyn had spent his time ever since, with Viserion regularly checking up on him; he had clearly left some impression on the white dragon. 

Viserion spread his wings in one swift movement, twisting in the hole and taking flight. Once again, Quentyn could hear the sound of the wings flapping and fading into the distance. Once the dragon had left hearing range and he was once again alone, he wandered over to the gaping hole in the side of the pyramid and peered out; below, the city seemed desolate, the streets empty. One building had melted into the street, the former bricks lumps scattered across the paved earth, and upon a distant pyramid a green shape was perched. He almost flinched at that, but managed to compose himself. _Rhaegal is far away_ , he told himself, _Rhaegal has a whole city it can burn._ The beast roared, a sound audible across the long distance at a volume that Quentyn found himself covering his ears with his hands. Moments later, an answering roar sounded, which could only be Viserion. The black one, _Drogon, that was the black one_ , was not in Meereen; with Viseriom, he had the best chance at finding the Drogon and his rider, that was if Viserion would let him mount again – he did not have the whip and although the white dragon appeared to have some sense of loyalty to him, Quentyn had no way to control the direction of the beast, and even if he did, he would be far easily lost in this place so far from home. Daenerys would have to come back to Meereen, she would not abandon her people, or her dragons. If there were any people left – _it seems like they are all_ _d_ _ead,_ Quentyn thought, _had the dragons wrath burned all M_ _e_ _ereen's people alive or had they all fled? It was all well for him to have won over Viserion, but what was the cost?_ These burns would most likely scar, the last of his friends may be dead, and dragon fire had rained down on Meereen, possibly undoing Daenery's good work uniting his city and bringing an unstable peace between Meereen and Yunkai. He wondered where she was, the girl his father had sent him to marry – the Targaryen who raised the dragon he had stolen. That was a crime too, Ser Barristan Selmy would have something to say about that, he had told Quentyn to go home, not commit treason; the elderly knight had most likely arrested Drinkwater and Yronwood, if they were alive, like he saw them last, for the crime the three of them had committed, and the Windblown too, if there had been any to catch besides the one who had so recklessly fired the crossbow and died for his actions; he had deserved that, for almost ruining what they had set out to achieve. _It could have all ended in fire_ _and blood. Rhaegal could have roasted them all with his fire, and the whole of Me_ _e_ _reen too. Was he too harsh to judge the crossbow man for firing his weapon at a dragon who could have done that much damage? Viserion had not shown his fire in the pit, but he too had the potential to have ended it all._ _He had been scared. I had been scare_ _d. More than scared._

He needed to find something to eat. It had been days since he had tasted food, and with more days he would die. Quentyn did not want to be known as the prince who tamed a dragon just to die from hunger, or thirst, since the supply of wine had gone. Moving away from his dragon-created window, he began his journey towards the end of the room, pulling open the heavy wooden door and peering out onto the corridor, which was devoid of life. Usually, the pyramid corridors would have several Braizen Beasts clad in animal masks stationed outside the important rooms, which Quentyn's temporary bedchamber could only be. That was how it was in the great pyramid, but this was certainly not that – he would have known. The pyramids of the other houses were most likely run differently, Quentyn had not had the privilege of going inside, yet guards was something he would have expected, if the pyramid hadn't been handed over to Viserion as it appeared to have been. The pyramid was his then, and all he needed to do was find the food store, which sounded like an easy feat. It was not long of wandering about lavishly decorated halls, pale of colour but patterned with various tapestries, that he realised the task was far from easy, and he had to sit down more than once for the pain. He was in no fit state to explore Meereen in whatever its current state was, or to face whoever might be waiting for him. A knight he may be, but he had not forgotten that Gerris had to defend him from the Braizen Beast in the hallway on the way to collect his dragon – and now he was not even physically able. If Semly found him, he would lock him away with Arch and Drink, and he would lose Viserion; if his companions were in a cell, Quentyn would get them out, but not now. In all honesty, he was not sure what he was going to do now – he had Viserion, but the rest of the plan had crumbled to pieces and his health seriously compromised. He needed a maester. Meereen did not have maesters. 

Eventually he found what he was looking for, a food store stacked high enough to support him for half a winter in Westeros. He pondered for a while, examining the exotic fruits and breads available until it occurred to him that he was hungry enough to eat anything, so he did, selecting a few basic looking foods that he recognised from his alreadtt lengthy stay in Meereen and feasting upon them until his hunger waned; Quentyn was not a fool enough to stuff himself to burst, so ate only what he needed. There were some seeds that upon initial examinations looked similar to poppy seeds, but when he had looked closer, much to his disappointment he found that they were not. He was far from a maester, but he had spent some of his time while fostered with the Yronwoods studying basic healing. He had been given little choice, getting beaten in the training yard, mostly by Gerris Drinkwater, was not something he prided himself in, so treating his own cuts and bruises had been preferable – he was a prince of Dorne, he had to be the best he could be. He could only be his best again now with rest, so he took a large cask of water with him on his much slower return trip up the pyramid to his makeshift chambers. The walking would do him good, and using his arms would get easier with time, when the burns healed more than the ugly red botches had now; but he had never been deemed as a pretty boy, these burns would not make much difference to that. For now, he had to make more stops than he did on the way to rest his arms, but he remembered the way to go.

When he arrived back in his chambers, Quentyn poured himself a drink and went to stand once more in his window, watching the sun set against the Meereenese pyramids. It was a pretty sight, oranges, purples and pinks and a shade of colour similar to Viserion's eyes blending together on the horizon and slowly fading away to an enveloping darkness to revealed the stars, twinkling jewels that joined the moon in lighting the sky. He had sat down sometime during the transition of day to night, sipping slowly from his goblet. Maybe when Viserion returned he would dare to once again climb upon the dragon's back, cling to his scales as he swooped and dived, as he hunted, to learn his habits, his nature and to feel the dragon beneath him; if he was to form a strong bond with this beast, he had to become the master of his desires as much as Viserion had to understand his. They needed to know each other like old friends; and then when Quentyn could control Viserion, he could get his friends back. He would not want to hurt Barristan the bold, but Drink and Arch could not pay for his treason – if it was treason; Daenerys herself had led Quentyn down to the pit, planted the suggestion that her refusal of his marriage pact was not the end of his quest. Ser Barristan should understand that. He could be one of the heads of the dragon, like Aegon the conqueror and his sisters were. Daenerys, him, and whoever dared to tame Rhaegal, unless Danerys returned and offered the green dragon to a prospective tamer, like that paramour she had – but he was no blood of the dragon. This was all under the assumption Gerris and Yronwood had not simply been sent home to Dorne. He would need to act sooner or later on that front, but he could not allow himself to be captured in this state – his bond with Viserion was weak, he needed to strengthen it. 

He saw Rhaegal again as the night went on, a dark green shape flying overhead before settling back down on the top of the pyramid he had seemingly claimed as his own. He saw nothing of Viserion, until the night was halfway through, and he had long finished musing. He had been returning to his bed, to wrap himself within the linen sheets and allowing his mind to wander for some time before he drifted back to sleep, to dream of fire when the white dragon appeared on the side of the pyramid, tail visibly dancing across the hole. Quentyn could hear the loose brickwork of the pyramid fall away as the dragon shifted, with what sounded quite gentle for movements of a creature his size, and settled outside; the tail continued to twitch to and fro, as if tempting him to leave the safety of the pyramid and venture outside, and Quentyn took the bait, trekking once more to the hole and leaning outside, careful of the pendulum tail. Viserion was eating, snapping up the remains of what may or may not have been a sheep roasted by dragon fire. As Quentyn pulled himself out onto the unstable side of the sloping wall, the dragon paid him no mind. _The dragon knows his name. I should call him._

“Viserion!” Quentyn called. The dragon knew his name, Viserion turned his golden eyes upon him, but made no move. Quentyn decided it would be polite to wait for the dragon to finish his meal, which he did, before he slowly approached. He had no whip, nothing to order the beast with, but he stayed down, proving he was the most docile of the three dragons, far less dangerous in actions that Rhaegal or Drogon, who had proved themselves to bear ill will to anyone who stood in their paths – but that did not make Viserion any less deadly; it made sense for Quentyn to have the dragon who by nature was the easiest to tame – his Targaryen blood was generations back, much less pure than Daenerys' blood, which was undoubtedly pure Targayen, and Viserion's temperament seemed to be similar to his own; Rhaegal and Drogon were wilder, much wilder. Quentyn was not wild. He opted to use his arm, holding it out so his palm was flat, to tell the dragon to remain down, which he did, most likely of his own choice rather than because Quentyn had requested it so as he approached, still watching him with those golden eyes. The sands of Dorne were golden. He had more in common with Viserion than he had initially thought; either that or he was making worthless comparisons to quell the rising nerves – animals could sense fear, but dragons were not animals. He was close enough to touch Viserion now. Two flights, the dragon had let him have, and Quentyn could see no reason why the dragon would deny him a third, but that did not make him any less nervous. Calm would come in time, the more he rode the dragon, the more he would trust the creature; Viserion was likely to do the same. His hand touched Viserion's wing. Stopping for a moment, Quentyn let his hand run over the limp that allowed the dragon to fly, feeling the warmth and texture and trying to commit to memory as something safe. The dragon was patient. Viserion's wings were a creamy white, but the bones of his wings were clearly gold, Quentyn ran his palm across that too, before he let it reach for Viserion's body to give himself a grip to haul himself up onto his dragon's back. He was not even settled before the beast launched himself into the air, scattering dust from crumbling bricks from the force of his sudden ascent, forcing Quentyn to cling on once more. The dragon continued to fly high, up into the sky so high that Quentyn thought for a moment he would be able to touch the stars, until the white dragon plummeted, narrowly missing the side of the great pyramid by swerving aside to ascend once again, in the direction of Rhaegal's pyramid. Quentyn dared to spare a glance down below, and realised he had a spectator, although he doubted from the height they were that whoever it was would be unable to see that the dragon had a rider – the height was a long one, and upon registering it Quentyn found himself tightening his hold on Viserion, if that were possible, he would not survive a fall from this height, no man would.

Rhaegal saw him though, glaring through bronze eyes from his seat upon the very top of his pyramid, but upon Viserion's back, he was safe, or so he thought, until the dark jade beast uncoiled himself to join Viserion in the sky, looping around him as if preparing for an attack. _He will not attack me. He will not attack Viserion._ And then Viserion dived, completing a full loop around Rhaegal that loosened Quentyn's grip considerably – the two dragons began to twist and turn much faster in the sky then, as if perfoming an elaborate show for anyone watching below, and Quentyn felt his heart quicken once more with fear. Viserion was dangerously close to the ground, and was making no attempt to fly any higher until a pyramid suddenly rose out of the ground ahead, and the white dragon's ascension was almost vertical – he was scrambling from grip then, fingers slipping from the effort while the only sound he could hear above the rushing wings was the beating of his own heart in his ears Rhaegal responded by looping again, and it was then that he realised the pair of dragons were playing, taunting each other like children. Quentyn had evidently chosen the wrong time to try to tame his dragon. Viserion levelled off, he was able to restore most of his grip, but his arms were burning from the effort, which he drained much more than the strength from his arms; if Viserion pulled off any more stunts, Quentyn would undoubtedly fall. Rhaegal decided to perform one more loop before he retreated, and Viserion swung about, removing Quentyn once more from his seat, but he did not fall. Viserion took his rider back over the great pyramid, and then down onto his own, folding away his wings to show Quentyn that his third flight was over. Fatigued yet alive with thrill, Quentyn let himself rest upon the dragon's back for a moment, letting his lungs rise and fall against the white dragon's back. It was almost as if Viserion had been testing him, and then had fetched him back when he had realised his rider was beginning to struggle, and as he had imagined, the third flight despite most of it consisting of Quentyn's fear at the maximum level he could imagine, trust was developing – he did not remain on the dragon's back for any longer than necessary during the first and second flights, but now, even if it was mostly due to exhaustion, he was lying between Viserion's wings until the dragon shuffled, a sign he interpreted as Viserion wanting him off, so he obeyed, slipping off one side and onto the sloping pyramid wall, forgetting the lack of safe ground for a moment and slipping no more than half a foot before he steadied himself and lowered himself back into the hole in the wall, Viserion's molten eyes fixed on him throughout.

When Quentyn Martell took to his bed, he did not dream of burning in dragon fire. _He dreamed of flying on Viserion, flying so high he was amongst the clouds, and then soaring back down to the sands of Dorne._


End file.
